


In Sync

by bellygunnr



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trouble Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28025133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: John's got support now, and he loves them all dearly.
Relationships: Blue Team & John-117 | Master Chief
Kudos: 18





	In Sync

Admission of weakness did not come easily to John. Then again, weakness manifested as anything from exhaustion to pain– anything that ailed the flesh was immediately treated as something to be ignored and worked around, or simply addressed long enough TO be worked around. For a long time, he had simply never had the time to do anything else. Sleep was fitful, short, or spent in cryo, and there was always another mission to be had, often without warning.

So it was no surprise that, during his longest stint of downtime in nearly a decade, he was finally feeling every nick, bite, and scar in the deeper parts of his flesh. Decades’ worth of missed sleep continued to elude him as he woke up in the middle of the night, plagued by dreams more sharply felt without cryo’s smothering.

His memory was sharper than people gave him credit for. His emotions, the existence of which were often joked about, were always present, lurking in his chest to strike when least convenient.

Like now, of course. He feels guilty now– guilty for waking Blue Team and all the Spartans adjacent them. He was loud when unregulated, and there was no regulation in sleep. Trust is the only thing allowing him to meet Linda’s eye as she approaches him, silhouetted by the room’s single overhead light.

(A night light, one of them had called it. Who was it?)

“It’s okay,” Linda whispers. “Let’s catch up with the others in the atrium.”

She breaks eye contact with him to kneel down and, presumably, lace up her boots. He continues staring at the empty space she left behind, feeling like something’s missing.

(Why are the others gone?)

(Cortana, you ask, spearing the thought into the vastness of your brain. Are the others okay?)

The bed creaks as he wordlessly follows suit. His head feels like it’s both buzzing and stuffed full of cotton. Linda only signals for him to hurry up, but something stalls him in place for a moment longer.

(She does not respond. You will not hear from her again.)

Despite his best efforts, he gasps as he stands up, newfound pains and aches wedging themselves into the fibers of his muscles and the joints of his limbs. He even accepts Linda’s steadying hand, smiling faintly as she bears his weight enough to get him out the door and into the hallway.

The air is… not still. Ship air is rarely still, but he is still surprised by the revelation. It’s a poor approximation of wind, though– it stinks of titanium and synthetic materials and the combined fog of people. It is a blend of everything the ship experiences, pushed endlessly and refined totally by the robust ventilation systems.

He and Linda stir the air as they walk down the hall. Silent steps, despite their size. Quick cut, bypassing the tram system to take the long way ‘round, determined to work off nervous energy. They shared in the sensation of being overcharged batteries, and it felt like fire ants beneath his skin.

The trek to the atrium is short. There are plenty of personnel awake at ship-mandated night, but few of them are willing to dissuade Spartans from their tasks– rather, they are not willing to dissuade Spartan-IIs. For now, John will simply appreciate the deference.

It’s a much needed reprieve.

Linda gestures him into the atrium ahead of herself. He ducks inside, mindful not to clip his head or his shoulders on the narrow, human-sized door, and makes room for her immediately. Once inside, they stand beside each other, getting their bearings.

The Infinity’s atrium was… impressive. John had not seen many, but the few he had paled in comparison. The scent of dirt and grass hit his nostrils with an accuracy potent enough to inspire memories, but none good, so he quashes them. If he strains his ears, he can hear the existence of animals, from their heartbeats to their wing beats to their vague sounds of alarm.

Louder, and more immediately, however, he can hear the heartbeats of friends– of Fred and Kelly, slipping into existence out of the depths of a tree’s shadow. John turns to them with relief, something tight and coiled in his stomach relaxing, assuaged by their presence.

“Race you to the pond,” Kelly says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

“What do I get when I win?” John asks, leaning forward.

“If you win,” she corrects. “I’ll give you Fred and Linda’s chocolate milk.”

Fred makes an affronted sort of sound while Linda just takes off running, bounding airily on long legs.

There’s a split-second of stillness, then they are all running.

It’s a long time before John remembers he never asked why they were all in the atrium in the first place. By the time he’s back in bed, surrounded by Spartans, he finds that he might know the reason why.

They all fall asleep purring, John the loudest of them.


End file.
